


and i always return

by orphan_account



Series: return to me (you have no choice) [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (if you chose to read it romantically), Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Keith (Voltron), Blood, Broken Bones, Chains, Collars, Conditioning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Dominant Lotor (Voltron), Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) Whump, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Kinda, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, Lotor is a Creep, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Lotor (Voltron), Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Memory Loss, Muzzles, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Really A Happy Ending, Nudity, Pet Names, Prisoner Keith (Voltron), Slave Keith (Voltron), Stockholm Syndrome, Submission, Submissive Keith (Voltron), THIS IS A WHUMP FIC BEWARE THE WARNINGS, Torture, Touch-Starved Keith (Voltron), Using drugs to manipulate, Whump, amnesiac Keith, but there is, depends on your definition of happy I suppose, evil lotor, it then becomes consensual but only because the victim's mind gets messed up, same with the touching, the keitor is one sided and can be platonic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22946263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Keith is captured by Lotor, he expects to be tortured for information, or used as bait for his friends.He doesn't expect the way Lotor acts around him.He doesn't expect the hurt to be followed by soft, gentle touches.He doesn't expect -He forgets.And then Lotor is all he knows.Whump fic. Keith &/ Lotor, read it however you want. Please heed the warnings in the tags.
Relationships: Keith & Lotor (Voltron), Keith/Lotor (Voltron)
Series: return to me (you have no choice) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682911
Comments: 12
Kudos: 189





	and i always return

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [29 Day Feb-Whump-Ary Challenge: Day 18](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22917748) by [sunshinehime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinehime/pseuds/sunshinehime). 



> Hope you enjoy, but please pay attention to the warnings. I hope I've tagged everything. If anything's been missed please tell me!

It's been a week, and Keith is forced to kneel at Lotor's feet.

His wrists sting as the metal cuffs rub against his raw skin, from his initial struggles after his unfortunate captivity. It was supposed to be a simple intelligence mission for the Blades, in and out again, no fuss. But Keith's comrade was discovered and killed, her last cry betraying his location.

The soldiers came for him, but they haven't killed him yet. 

He's resisted, against the beatings and the whipping and the electrocution, keeping his lips sealed shut, refusing to even grant them a scream, let alone the information they demand.

After four days, they give him a scrap of food and a bowl of water, telling him he's worth more to them alive.

Then on the seventh day, they drag him from the dirtied cell, weak but still fighting, and hold him down in front of the galran prince.   
Keith wants nothing more than to spit on Lotor's polished boots, but his mouth is dry, no saliva to spare. His bare shoulders ache from the claws digging in, some drawing thin trickles of blood in an effort to keep him down.

"Fiesty, isn't he?" Lotor remarks, his manicured fingers reaching out towards Keith's face. 

He's torn between biting them and flinching away, ending up completely frozen as the prince caresses his cheek, the unwanted touch lingering over his various lacerations and bruises. It sends shivers through his body, a feeling that is both unpleasant yet somewhat _blissful_ at the same time, and he's almost leaning into the touch before he remembers himself, remembers where he is, and pulls back, glaring. 

The prince's eyes ignite. "Interesting," he remarks, and Keith's heart sinks as Lotor moves closer, both hands on his cheeks this time, one moving into his hair, the other finding a tender spot on his neck.

Keith _whines_ , and Lotor laughs. 

"Interesting," he says again, "Very interesting. We can certainly work with this."

The hand on Keith's neck tightens, both a caress and a chokehold, and he stiffens completely, a breath stuck in his throat.

"Oh, yes," Lotor purrs, "We can _definitely_ work with this little one."

He finally releases his hand, and Keith sags, gasping in air, his mind spinning. 

It isn't until he's back in the cell that he realises how _quickly_ the urge to fight disappeared, all after that simple touch. He's frightened, of how much of an effect even the simplest action had, that after a _week_ of resistance and torture he's floored by the smallest, stupidest thing. It just doesn't make any _sense_.

And, from the look in Lotor's eyes, he doesn't want it to.

* * *

It's been two weeks, and Keith is starving. Not in the literal sense - his captors have fed him every day - but he's starving for something different, some _change_.

Since he was thrown back in his cell, he's had _no_ contact with _anyone_ , and he's...not coping. He thought he'd be alright. After all, he lasted almost a year out in the desert. But that was a _desert_ and there was still _life_ but this is a _cell_ , it's hard and damp and _cold_ , the lights overhead are dim but they won't shut off, the walls are thick to hide the sounds from outside, the steel coatings offer no textures, and the only smell is his own rancid filth.

Food and water are given once a day, through a small slot at the base of the door, and that is the only change. 

The monotony is bad, but the itch in his skin is _worse_.

It started off as a tingle he could ignore, but now every skin cell is on fire, screaming out for the touch of someone, _anyone_ , and Keith hates it. He learnt to live without others, long ago. 

But being a part of Voltron has...weakened him, in that sense. Lowering his intolerance by the constant casual touches, until he is used to them again, just seeing it as the everyday. Even the Blades have physical affection: Keith is a frequent target of head-rubs, whether to mess up his hair affectionately or deliberately, he is relatively happy with them either way.

It doesn't explain the reason why he feels so _wrong_ and _desperate_ , now.

He assumes he's been alone for a week but it's hard to tell. He alternates between cursing Lotor and wanting the prince to return to take him out of the accursed cell.

As the days pass, he leans more and more towards the latter. 

The door finally creaks open at the end of the seventh day, and Keith gasps when the guard's hand wraps around his forearm, the skin-on-skin contact making the fires dance hotter. _Something is very wrong with me_ , he thinks, because he's never had such a _severe_ reaction to touch before.

His mind is hazy, and when it clears, he realises he's being held in place before Lotor again. 

"Hello, little one," the prince croons, his voice almost harsh on Keith's ears after experiencing mostly silence for the past week.

"Did you miss me?" Lotor continues. 

"No," Keith spits. 

Lotor grins. "I'm not so sure about that." He motions, and the guards drag Keith up, forcing him to kneel upright, so his chin is resting on Lotor's knee. Keith struggles against the grip, but he is held firm and unrelenting.

"Hush now, little one. Let me see." Lotor brushes Keith's hair, ever so gently, and he stiffens upon reflex. But then the hand goes deeper, touching his skin, and the flames dance again, leaving a charred trail from his scalp down his forehead, loosely dusting his eyelids, running down his cheeks and finally resting on his neck. A few strange sounds escape him, and he's somehow _relaxing_ against Lotor, his body betraying his mind as a confusing sensation of pure _bliss_ sings in his skin cells, once the ashes have cleared. 

"You did miss me, you just won't admit it," Lotor remarks, his almost jeering tone bringing Keith back to reality. He tries to sit up, tries to pull back, but to his horror he's utterly limp, his muscles unresponsive.

"Dear, sweet, little one," the prince croons again, "Soon you will learn, your place is at my feet. You love it though, don't you? You love this?" He touches Keith's cheeks with gently strokes, and a satisfied whine escapes him. 

Lotor grins. "I take that as a yes. This can be very easy for you, if you so chose."

"No," Keith finally manages to grind out. 

"No?" Lotor echoes, "Oh, how disappointing. Very well. You know what to do." His smile is gone and he looks at the guards as he speaks. They nod, then take Keith away, hauling him back to the cell.

But this time, he's not left alone. 

This time, they strap him down, thick cuffs around his wrists, ankles, and even his neck, pinning him to a metal table. His mouth is forced open harshly, and something sharp is pressed between his teeth, before his jaw is slammed shut, another something clamping around it and preventing him from opening his mouth.

 _A muzzle_ , he realises dimly, _they've muzzled me._

The bit in his mouth has many small spikes that dig into the roof of his mouth and his tongue if he even tries to speak, so he soon stops, not wanting to fill his mouth with his own blood and end up choking. 

"Hmm, yes," a tall galran female says, moving into Keith's field of vision, "You must learn, that you are no longer permitted to speak. Speech is for _people_ , but you are less than that, now."

 _No, I'm not! I'm a person_! Keith wants to protest, and he almost attempts to, but then the girl smirks and agony surges through his veins.

He cannot scream, but he still tries. 

* * *

It's been three weeks, and Keith is in agony.

His mouth is torn up inside, all his gums bleeding as well as his tongue, from all the sessions of torture that would normally elicit a scream but now only serve to throw the tender spots in his mouth against the spiked bit. 

They're not asking questions; they're just _hurting_ him.

It started off as electricity, much like when he first arrived, but his captors soon grew bored of it. They moved on to the whip for fifty lashes, which caused him to black out four times, and he thought _that_ was bad.

But then the lead female took his hands and began snapping his fingers, one by one, pausing just enough for the agony in each to peak before moving on to the next. And after that, she forced his broken hands into two thick cuffs that encompassed the entirety of the hand, crushing and contorting the already agonised fingers, and sending with it a pain that only pounded stronger by the minute.

Now Keith lies there, not a single part of him free from the aches and agonies, and he almost wishes it over. 

"Oh, little one." The increasingly-familiar voice of Lotor breaks through the pain-induced haze, and he shivers as the prince touches his cheek. 

"I warned you, didn't I? We could have things so easy. But you make it hard, don't you?"

Keith is in too much pain to answer, not that the muzzle will permit him, anyway. 

Slowly, almost tenderly, Lotor unlocks the hideous contraption, his fingerprint the only key, and pulls it from Keith's face. Keith's jaw is so stiff, for a moment he cannot open it, but Lotor forces him to, grinning at his gasp of pain as the bit is torn from his mouth, blood spilling over cracked, parched lips.

"We don't have to keep this up," the prince murmurs, wiping the blood from Keith's face, "If you would only be good for me."

"Wha' do you wan'?" Keith rasps.

Lotor sighs. "Sweetheart, you were told not to talk. Did you not learn?" He tuts, shaking his head in disapproval, but leans in closer.

"What I want is _you_ , little one. You have been so mistreated by Voltron and that galran rebel group. You deserve a life of comfort, of touches," as he speaks his hands move, tracing all over Keith's face, one moving to stroke his head as another caresses his neck, each causing shivers and painful yet pleasant sensations. A whine escapes him, and Lotor's smile widens.

"See? This is what you want, what you crave. And I will give it to you. All I ask is that you sit at my side, a perfect little slave. Or pet, if you prefer."

Keith stiffens, then his heart pounds wildly as Lotor's words sink in. _He wants me to be...a pet, a slave? No, I won't, I won't let him-!_

"No," he protests, but his voice is weak and broken. 

"Are you sure? You could have this, _all the time_ ," Lotor purrs, and Keith's breathing hitches as he realises the prince is straddling him, his hands now running down over Keith's bare and bloodied chest, before trailing back up to cup Keith's face tenderly. Keith tries to pull back, but then Lotor's lips are on his, firm and bruising, aggravating his already pain-filled mouth. He squirms, trying to lift his arms to push the prince away, but he _can't_ , the cuffs over his hands are too heavy and his broken fingers are screaming and he _hates_ this he wants to get free and now he can't breathe _can't breathe_ -!

Lotor only separates when Keith's vision goes black, and then the latter gasps for breath, trembling and shaking under the prince. 

"Steady now, little one," Lotor croons, "Didn't you enjoy that?" 

_No!_ Keith thinks. He is panting too hard to form words.

"I think we should try again," Lotor says, and this time Keith manages to rasp _no_ but it's too late, the prince is locking lips with him again, pulling Keith towards him this time, his hands playing in Keith's hair as they kiss. Keith's head spins at the gentle touches, and he's kissing back before he comes to his senses and tries to pull away once more.

Lotor lets him, and there is a glimmer of victory in his eyes. 

"You want it, little one, don't you? All I need is for you to obey. Can you do that for me?"

Part of Keith whispers _yes_ , he doesn't have to fight, he could be good and then he wouldn't hurt anymore, everything would be okay...  
But Lotor is his _enemy_ and he _hates_ him, he doesn't _want_ to be kissed and if he gives in Lotor might try and take things _further_ and that is something Keith can't allow-

So he says, "No," as loud and as strong as he can manage. 

"No?" Lotor gasps, "Little one, you are in absolutely no state to be defying me. Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Very well," Lotor sighs, "You must learn a few more lessons, then. Silence is one of them."

Still straddling Keith, he forces his mouth open and pushes the bit in, still coppery with Keith's blood, then fastens the muzzle again.

"You only make things harder for yourself, sweetheart. This is for you own good."

Keith just scowls, and wriggles, trying to get Lotor off him. The prince eventually does so, and he immediately curls up as best as he can manage, wanting to prevent that situation from happening again. 

"Why must you be so difficult?" Lotor exclaims. 

"Perhaps a different... approach is necessary?" someone suggests.

"Fine," the prince relents, "Ready the dosage."

_...dosage?_

By the time Keith figures out what they mean, it's too late. 

They've already forced him under. 

* * *

It's been five weeks, and Keith is drifting.  
He's been drifting for a while now, rising back to consciousness but there's too much _pain pain pain_ and he's forced under again.

When he finally breaks the surface, he...doesn't remember where he is.

Blearily, he tries to sit up, gasping as the motion sends ripples of agony through his body, especially focused around his back. He's curled on his side, hands lying beside him, and they're heavily bandaged, so much so he can't move them. Breathing is a little difficult, and he quickly discovers his mouth is clamped shut, only letting him inhale through his nose. 

He's in discomfort, but no pain, not as long as he doesn't try to move.

But _where is he?_

Keith reaches back as far as he can go, but he's hitting a blank wall. He knows his name, knows he's part-galra (though what a _galra_ is he's...not so sure) and he...

He doesn't know anything else. 

He starts to panic, and this time he _does_ try to move, forcing himself to sit up though he nearly blacks out twice. Somehow he manages it, and he would be panting if he didn't have metal on his face. 

He knows things like that - he knows what to call every part of his body, knows what the materials around him are, knows how to move - but he doesn't know anything _personal_. 

He knows he should have memories, but he can't find them.

Suddenly the door opens, interrupting his panic, and his head whips towards the entrance, staring wide-eyed as a man walks in. He is tall and elegant, with soft purple skin, and long, flowing white hair. There is something familiar, about him, and that stops Keith from scrambling back when the man crouches in front of him.

"Ah, little one. I am pleased to see you awake." His tone is gentle, pleasing, and Keith finds him relaxing a little more.

"You look confused, though. Do you know where you are?" the man continues. 

Keith shakes his head.

"Do you know who I am?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head again, because no he doesn't, not really. 

"Can you remember anything?"

He tilts his head slightly then stares at the ground, hoping to convey, _not really, no_. 

"Oh, sweetheart." The man gathers him into his arms, and Keith lets him, though his confusion only grows and the motion aggravates his back. 

"My name is Lotor. I am your Master, little one. I...had hoped you would remember, but you _did_ hit your head, very hard. You were being very silly..." Lotor - his Master - sighs, and Keith frowns, because his head doesn't hurt _that_ much...but, he can't remember anything, so his Master must be speaking the truth.

If he has a Master, does that mean he's a slave? 

He didn't think he was, but he supposes that must be true, as well. His Master's words all ring with honesty.

"Come, now, let me get this off you. As long as you don't try to talk, we can keep it off, okay?" 

_I'm...not allowed to talk?_

Keith frowns slightly, but nods, and holds still as his Master releases the lock on his jaw, then eases his mouth open, and pulls something sharp from that, too. _A muzzle and a bit,_ his mind supplies. 

Maybe...maybe he's not a slave. Maybe he's some sort of... _animal_?

His Master scoops him up, and he yelps as the wounds on his back are knocked and irritated.

"Hush, little one. We're just going to get you cleaned up."

Keith is carried through corridors that all look the same, grey walls with purple accents. His Master doesn't set him down until they reach another room, with white tiled walls and a large tub. Then he places Keith in the tub, and swiftly removes his remaining clothing, as well as the bandages on his hands. His figures look very purple and swollen, and it's agony to try to move them.

"Hmm, I'll have to get a healing patch on those," his Master remarks, "If you're good for me now, of course." He turns a dial, and water starts to fill the tub. Once it's halfway up Keith's chest, he stops it, and grabs a sponge lathered in soap. 

"Hold still for me, sweetheart," his Master instructs. Then he leans forward and rubs the sponge against Keith's skin.

Keith gasps as layers of grime are scrubbed off, the sensation not unpleasant, until his Master is finished with his top half and moves _down_. Immediately he flinches, and his Master pauses, turning to lock gazes with him.

"I told you to be good and stay still for me. You can't wash yourself, can you? I always have to do this for you. So _behave_."

Keith lowers his gaze and closes his eyes, ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable feeling as his Master continues his cleaning. He barely suppresses a gasp as his genitals are washed, every sensation accompanying it just _wrong wrong wrong_ but he has to obey, doesn't he? His Master is still speaking the truth. He can't wash himself, and he doesn't want to be dirty...so this must be the way to sort things out. 

It doesn't make it any less horrible or degrading.

When he's rinsed off, his Master drains the water from the tub then lifts Keith out again, bundling him up in a towel. He dries Keith, not exactly being gentle around his back or hands, and Keith has to bite back the cries of pain. Then, his Master discards the towel, and seizes a piece of fabric, which he then fixes around Keith's hips, only just covering his groin.

A _loincloth_ his mind supplies, ever helpful with the general knowledge but still nothing _specific_ to him. 

Keith begins to wonder quite how hard he hit his head.

His Master finally steps back, leaving him knelt on the floor, with a quick command to stay. He obeys, waiting, and his Master returns then with some medical supplies. He pours liquid over Keith's bruised fingers, then binds them in a thicker fabric, that stings, but he's able to cope with it. 

"Come on now, little one. Time to return to your home." His Master walks out of the door, but Keith stays, unsure of how to proceed.

After a brief moment, his Master looks back. "Crawl, little one. Come on now, I have some gifts for you, when we arrive.'

Again Keith hesitates, because how can he crawl when his hands are injured? His Master seems to sense this, and sighs.

"Your fingers are broken, sweetheart. Not your palms. You can still crawl. Now _come_."

It's clearly a command, and Keith obeys, gritting his teeth against each spike of agony that splinters up from his hands, as he's forced to put weight on them. He crawls slowly at first, but manages to pick up the pace, until he's at his Master's heel. Thankfully they don't have far to go, and once they're through a set of elaborate doors, they stop and Keith can't help but gasp.

Before him is a large, decorative room, with ornately decorated stairs leading up to the centrepiece, which is a beautifully designed golden throne. Other chairs line up before the stairs, but none as elaborate as the throne. The walls are a light purple with gold accents, and there are many doors along them, each gold as well.

His Master steps forward again, and he knows instinctively to follow. 

"These are my quarters. This is my hall, where I see visitors, and where you will be, most of the time. All these doors lead to my other rooms, but there are only three you need to know of. First, this." He pauses, and opens the door they're at, revealing a white-tiled room similar to the one they just frequented. 

"This is my private bathroom, where I will wash you in future, and where I will permit you to relieve yourself," his Master explains, then moves on to the next room, a few doors down. "This is one of my lounges, and the only one you are permitted in. If you behave, we will relax and eat in there." Keith barely gets a glimpse of plush, cushioned couches before his Master moves on, walking brisker, to the final room, across the other side of the throne.

"And this is my bedroom, where you may come, if you are _especially_ good. Otherwise, you will sleep in your usual space." 

Again Keith only gets a brief look before the door is closed, and his Master strides towards the throne. He ascends the stairs with ease, glancing back to ensure Keith follows, and the latter does so, but at a much slower pace. Finally he reaches the top, panting, and his Master smiles.

"Well done, sweetheart. You deserve a reward for that. But first, your gift!" He turns and picks something off the throne, then kneels down, holding it out to Keith. 

It's a collar. 

Gold-plated and embedded with alternating red and purple jewels, it is certainly a masterpiece fitting with their surroundings, but something in Keith cringes away at it, because it's a _collar_. 

"You are precious to me, little one," his Master murmurs, "And I want everyone to see that. They will all know that you belong to me, and they will never try to take you or hurt you, or make you be someone you're not." As he talks, he slips the collar around Keith's neck, and it fastens securely with a distinctive click. It's tight enough that Keith can _feel_ it, and is actively aware of its presence, but he can breathe fine, and it's not _uncomfortable_.

"There you go," his Master breathes, "Beautiful. Now, for your reward..." He hooks his finger into a small ring on the collar, and pulls Keith forward, pressing his lips against Keith's. For some reason, Keith expects it to _hurt_ , but it's actually tender, and he finds himself leaning into his Master's caresses, returning the kiss. All too soon his Master pushes him away, and a small whine escapes him. 

"Oh, sweetheart, I will reward you again if you behave. Can you do that for me?" 

Keith nods, and his Master smiles.

"Good," he whispers, "Very good. Now, sit in your rightful place." His Master stands, then sits down on the throne, and Keith shuffles around so he's to the left of the throne.

"Almost." His Master pulls him by the collar again, a little closer, so he's forced to kneel more upright, his head pulled to rest just in his Master's lap. "Now, here we go," his Master croons, gently stroking Keith's hair, the touch instantly sending him into a pleasant bliss.

 _Wrong, wrong, this is wrong_ , a small part of Keith chants, as he rests there, and a group of people enter the room to take audience with his Master, a slight shock crossing their faces at his presence. 

But his Master strokes him again, and he's in heaven, so he ignores the little voice.

* * *

It's been eight weeks, and Keith is finally allowed into his Master's bedroom.

He's been good, everyday, doing _exactly_ as his Master has commanded. It's becoming easier to ignore the sense of wrongness, and he finds it very comfortable, living in a state of doing nothing unless commanded. He gets the feeling that his life used to be harder, with more pain and loneliness, many difficult decisions with no support.

He doesn't have to worry about anything like that, now. 

His Master tells him what to do, where to go, how to sit. His Master feeds him, at first by the throne, but sometimes in the other room, where his Master gets to sit on the couches but he has to remain on the floor, because he's not a _person_ , so he shouldn't be treated as such. His Master likes to hand-feed him little pieces of fruit and other sweet things, as well as chunks of nutrient bars, all in small pieces that are either placed on his tongue, or he takes it direct from his Master's hand.

(His hands can't be used to touch food; he learnt that the hard way, his Master punishing him by putting his hands in restraining cuffs that encompassed them completely, leaving them cramped like that for two days. It damaged his still-healing fingers a little more, but they're almost fine now. And it was okay. He messed up, he needed to be taught.)

His Master also bathes him, twice a week, and he's learning to be less averse to it. Keith thinks he probably _is_ capable of washing, it doesn't seem _too_ hard, but he has no way of asking his Master if he can try, so he doesn't bother.

(Maybe he could speak, if he tried? But he doesn't think so, he doesn't think it's possible for someone like him. His Master has said quite a few times that he can't talk, that he's not a person. His Master has never called him a slave or a pet or an animal but he assumes he's all of those things, because that makes _sense_. No other thought does.) 

The worst thing, for Keith, is when he needs to relieve himself, because he has to wait until his Master decides it is a convenient time. Thankfully, for this one, small thing, his Master offers him privacy, walking with him to the bathroom door but letting him go about his business in peace, with no further supervision. Oddly, it's when he feels most like a person, because he has to stand on two feet, has to click the button to have water run, has to wash his hands _by himself._

(It's then that he thinks maybe he's more of a slave than an animal, but maybe he's just a well-trained pet.)

His Master tells him where to sleep, too, and until today, he's been left at the foot of the throne. Every night, his Master takes a short length of chain and fastens it from his collar, to a small ring at the base of the throne, securing him there. Keith's told it's not to stop him from running - his Master trusts him to stay - but rather, to stop anyone from trying to take him. The chain is secured by a biological lock each end, programmed only to his Master's fingerprint. It's impossible for anyone else to remove.

(He found that out when a servant came to clean in the early hours of the morning, and Keith couldn't move far. The servant tried to break the chain, but was shocked by a current so strong, she passed out and didn't wake for two days. Some sparks of electricity had jumped through Keith, too, and he decided that he wouldn't let anyone else even _try_ to remove the chain.)

But today, his Master tells him that he can come into the bedroom, and he is excited. Until he actually crawls into the room, spies the _huge_ four-poster bed, then something in his chest jumps into a panic. 

His Master does get very... _touchy_ with him, but it's mostly caressing his face and neck, sometimes his chest or back, and never anywhere near his genitals. He gets kisses, too, advertised as a 'reward' but Keith's smart enough to see that his Master enjoys it a lot more than he does. He prefers the gentle touches, or kisses against the skin, rather than lip-to-lip contact.

Of course, in his excitement that he's been _good_ and is _allowed_ somewhere other than the cold floor by the throne, Keith didn't think to consider what _else_ could happen, in the bedroom. 

What he knows he absolutely does _not_ want happening.

To his relief, though, his Master tells him to sleep on the floor, at the side of the bed, and ensures that by fixing his chain to one of the feet of the bed. Keith is content with this arrangement, as the carpeted floor is so much softer than anything else he can recall sleeping on, and he sleeps better than he ever has.

It continues like this for a few nights, but then on the fifth night, his Master tells him to get into the bed. 

He hesitates at first, partly because he hasn't been on _any_ furniture, _ever_ , but also partly because of his fears. Still, his Master insists, so he obeys, awkwardly climbing up, his thin limbs sinking into the soft mattress. His Master has him lie down on the left side, then fastens his chain to the top left bedpost - again, he says, to protect him, but Keith can't help but feel more nervous.

His Master strips for bed, but puts on a thin pair of shorts, and he doesn't try to take Keith's loincloth. He just gets into the bed, on his side, and lies down next to Keith.

"Come closer, sweetheart," he whispers, and Keith relents. His Master wraps his arms around him, holding him so his back is flush against his Master's chest, warmth spreading between them. 

"You're being so good, little one," he whispers, "I like you most like this. You're so very...beautiful." His Master presses little kisses to the back of Keith's neck, then down across his shoulders, and he whimpers softly, but it is a sound of pleasure. Hands then move to run through his hair, which falls past his shoulders now, working into softly into a braid. Keith starts to doze off as his Master plays, only waking again when the kisses recommence; the tingling against his skin makes him far too alert, and sends his head into a bit of a spin, as always.

Eventually, though, his Master falls asleep, breathing steadily beside him, and Keith soon drifts away too. He's happier than he could ever recall being before, and he decides that he...doesn't want to leave. Not now, not ever.   
He's actually _happy_ to _belong_ to someone.

* * *

It's been fourteen weeks, and Keith has fallen into a perfect routine. His Master does like to do things differently, some days, but Keith's presence at his side is a constant, unless he has important missions to run which require him to leave their home. When these occur, Keith is secured to the throne, often left with a bowl of water to keep him hydrated, until his Master returns, or one of his Master's lead generals comes in. There's four of them, he's counted, all female, and they all regard him differently.

The first is pink and bubbly, and she calls him 'adorable' or 'cutie', frequently kissing his forehead and rubbing his hair. She visits the most, when his Master is gone, and seems to enjoy spending a little time with him, to give him food or injections that keep him sustained but prevent the need for a toilet visit.

(After all, without his Master to unlock the chain, he cannot get to the bathroom.) 

The second is much taller and harsher, but she has a soft side, though she only showed it to Keith once. She doesn't bother with food, for him; if she's been selected, he'll get nutrient injections. She doesn't have the patience for his specific need.

The third doesn't have the patience, either, and she rarely visits. She's blue and slim, similar build to him, he thinks, though he's not sure. She only seems to regard him with a look of pity. 

The fourth is quiet, lacking both eyes and mouth, which is a little unsettling. There's always a cat not too far away from her, and its gaze is even more unsettling. She's gentle with him, though, and will feed him properly. Her touches are light, but they carry an impression, often emotions.

(He later realises that's how she communicates.) 

His Master's absences seem to be getting longer, and more frequent, which does distress him. He hears plenty of talk of war and attacks whilst sitting silently through the meeting, which only makes him more worried, because what if his Master doesn't return?

He... He _needs_ his Master. 

When his Master comes to leave again, after another night Keith's been allowed to spend on the bed, he's all knotted up inside, a crawling ball of anxiety. And when his Master says he'll be leaving, he can only think, _No!_

A strange noise rises in his throat, and his Master stiffens, turning back towards him.  
Then, Keith realises his mistake; _he tried to speak._

"Oh, sweetheart, you were doing so _well_ ," his Master sighs, "I don't want to hurt you, but you know what this means, don't you?" 

Keith bows his head in submission, tensing, but his Master doesn't hit him. Instead, he holds out the spiked bit, and Keith opens his mouth before it can be forced, accepting his punishment. The muzzle is fastened tight afterwards, bringing tears to his eyes, but again, he accepts it. 

He was bad, he did something he shouldn't. He _will_ learn. He _deserves_ this punishment, this reminder.

His Master chains him at the throne, then leaves on the mission. 

But no-one comes in. 

Keith knows when the day turns to night, then to day again, then back to night, and another day. He's been lying by the throne, the entire time, only moving a little to stop his muscles from locking up. 

No-one comes in, not even to check on him, and he starts to fear that something has happened to his Master. 

His tongue feels dead in his mouth, his throat dry and parched, his stomach cramping painfully from lack of substance. But none of that matters - _nothing_ matters - if his Master is gone. 

Without his Master, he's no one.

The third night comes, and Keith is slipping, the lack of food and water taking its toll. He just lies, hoping that his Master will return. He'll do _anything_. He'll take punishment, take pain, continue to starve, he just _needs_ his Master back.

And, as the night draws to a close, his Master finally returns. 

Keith lacks the energy to even let out a whine of relief, but he hopes he can convey it in his eyes. His Master strides over to him with a slight limp, takes one look at his weak, pathetic form, and immediately stabs a needle into his arm. Then he unlocks the chain from the base of the throne, but keeps it attached to the collar, and half-drags Keith down then steps and into the bedroom.

"Up," he commands, but Keith's limbs are shaking, so his Master just scoops him up and places him on the mattress, quickly securing the chain as usual. He's in the bed before Keith can blink, and immediately curls around Keith.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he whispers, and Keith's surprised as he realises that his Master is shaking. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. They're trying to find you. I'm trying to keep you safe, but they're smart, too smart... I don't want to lose you." His Master rolls Keith over, moving to caress his face, then stops, presumably as he notices the muzzle.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he mumbles again, most uncharacteristic, as he quickly removes the muzzle and bit, tossing them aside. Then he's almost on top of Keith, hands brushing over Keith's cheeks, before he kisses him. It's not as gentle as normal, with an unfamiliar passion and hunger, or almost a _desperation_. Keith _needs_ to know who is coming, why his Master is so scared, but for now, he is here to do as his Master wishes.

So he returns the kisses, and lies still as his Master's hands and lips trace his face, his neck, his shoulders, even down his chest. His Master's hands brush over his hips, but they move up again, to Keith's relief. 

"You won't leave, will you?" his Master asks then, watching Keith for his reaction.

He shakes his head, slowly, deliberately, his eyes conveying a promise. _I don't want to. I'm happy, with you._

His Master kisses him, again, and again, his lips moving from Keith's back to his face and neck, but they're harder this time, much firmer, each touch causing the slightest spike of pain, and when he's back to Keith's lips the kisses are bruising, forceful, _desperate_.

When Keith wakes, his face, neck, and upper chest are a mass of red and purple bruises, his lips slightly swollen as well, but he makes no protests, and his Master makes no comments. They begin the day almost as normal, until his Master keeps the chain on his collar, and leads him up to the throne this time, before securing it once more. 

"To keep you safe, sweetheart," his Master murmurs, as he kneels there, his head against his Master's thigh. 

His Master's touches are rougher, too, even when the meetings contain the simplest of queries, but Keith takes it all without protest. In between the meetings, his Master slips off the throne and moves so he's at Keith's level, before kissing him firmly and passionately, his hands pulling Keith closer to him, leaving bruises in their wake. 

Keith isn't fed at all over the next few days, only given injections twice a day, the ones meant to sustain him and keep him hydrated, as well as restrict bowel and bladder movements.

He's existing purely to be used by his Master, to be touched and kissed, whenever his Master isn't busy in the day, and almost through the entire nights. The mosaic of bruises is spreading down Keith's body, some appearing on his arms and legs as well, and he can't tell if they're from rough kisses or rough touches.

He's just grateful that his Master hasn't tried to take things further, in bed. 

He is concerned, though, about his Master's sudden, almost desperate behaviour, as if he's expecting Keith to be taken, and is trying to get the most out of him now. But Keith isn't going to _let_ himself be taken, because this is his _home_. He is with _his_ Master, and there is no other master for him.

Sometimes, he really wishes he could use words to convey that, but he can't. The only thing he can do is continue to be exactly who his Master wants, and return his affections, hoping that will be enough to convey the message.

* * *

It's been twenty weeks, and Keith is still worried. His Master is a little more normal, but not completely alright. He's still tense, still worried, but they've resumed a better routine, one that involves Keith being hand-fed again, no drugs restricting any of his body's functions.

Their little sessions seem to be taking longer, though, like his Master is trying to make the time drag so they can spend more together. Mealtimes are slow anyway, with how Keith has to be fed, but now they seem even more so, his Master deliberately withholding pieces of food, choosing to caress Keith or kiss him before feeding him the next part. Bathing takes longer, too, his Master lingering over his more sensitive parts when washing and drying him, sometimes just holding him whilst he's bundled up in the towel, before finally dressing him hours later.

The meetings grow fewer, and they spend most of their time now in the lounge where Keith is allowed, rather than at the throne. His Master now lets him up on the couch, but only to lay in his lap, so it is easier and more convenient for touches and kisses. The bruises come less often, thankfully, and Keith enjoys it again, taking more pleasure than pain.

He sleeps in his Master's bed every night, now.

But it's in the daytime, when he's chained at his Master's feet, that everything goes wrong. 

At first, the room trembles, but then it shakes, and Keith struggles to remain in his rightful place, his hands grabbing at the side of the throne as the room lurches. His Master's eyes are wide, panicked, and he hits a button on the right arm of the throne, yelling instructions to _scramble fighters_ and _prepare to be boarded_. Keith whines, huddling up as close as he can to his Master.

"Steady, sweetheart. We'll be okay," his Master murmurs, but his voice shakes.

The doors to the throne room are blasted open, and in enter five figures. They're all dressed primarily in white, with different coloured accents on their suits: pink, yellow, green, blue, black. Something is familiar about the symbol on their chests, but Keith can't quite place it.

"Lotor!" the pink one yells, "Return Keith to us, now!" 

Keith stiffens. _Return?... I... I don't know who they are... I want to stay here!_

He whines again, and tries to hide behind his Master.

"What have you _done_ to him?" the blue one gasps. 

"It's okay, Keith!" cries the green one, "We'll get you out of here!"

Keith's shaking his head and trembling, cowering. _No no no no no!_

"Can't you see? He doesn't want to leave." His Master places a hand in Keith's hair, and Keith desperately leans into the touch, trying to find some semblance of comfort.

"You're controlling him!" 

"No, I'm not."

"Release him!"

"Fine," his Master hisses, "I'll release him, but you stay _right_ there, and see who he turns to."

Before Keith can react, his Master unlocks the chain and _shoves_ , sending Keith tumbling down the stairs, so he lands at the bottom. Gasping, he rolls onto his hands and knees, his body trembling from pain as well as fear, now. 

"Keith! Are you okay?"

"Don't worry, Keith. We're here for you."

"Just come here, come on, we'll rescue you..."

Keith glances at the paladins, at the earnestness and desperation in their eyes. But he _doesn't know them_. And he doesn't need rescuing.

He shakes his head, and turns to the stairs, then begins his crawl up them. 

"See? The little one chooses _me_ , paladins," his Master declares, victory resonating in his tone.

" _No_ ," one of the paladins growls, then there's loud footsteps, and something slams into Keith, grabbing him roughly. He yelps, struggling as he's pulled back, held against an armoured chest. 

"No!" his Master roars.

Keith whines and keeps struggling, watching in horror as the pink and green ones run up the stairs and attack his Master, all as he's dragged further and further away. 

"Shh, Keith. It's okay, you're safe now," the person holding him tries to soothe, but he sobs and shakes his head, because _no he's not,_ they're stealing him away from his Master please stop stop stop _stop_ -

He chokes out the last word, then cringes because _he shouldn't speak_ , but his captor isn't listening. The arms holding him are too strong, especially the metal one, and he's too small and frail and _weak_ to break free.

Keith is dragged away, into the mouth of a metal Beast, and they keep saying he's _safe_ and _free_ but he's _terrified_ and a _prisoner._

* * *

It's been twenty three weeks, and Keith tries to escape at every opportunity. He's desperate to get back to his Master, his skin craving the touches and kisses, longing to hear the sound of his Master's voice, calling him _good_ and _little one_ and _sweetheart._

He wants to get back to the one who doesn't try to make him be a _person._

Because the paladins _do._

They ask him questions, ones he can't answer with yes or no, so he doesn't answer at all. They give him shoes and clothes, telling him they're _his_ but he doesn't feel comfortable in them. They place strange food in of him, and expect him to sit at a table and eat it himself, but he _can't,_ he's not capable of holding cutlery, _he can't feed himself._

They forcibly removed his collar, too, and threw it in the garbage.

(He retrieved it and hid it under the bed in the room they say is _his,_ except it's really not.)

Keith is just _so...lost,_ without his Master there to guide him, to dictate his every move. He wakes up to unfamiliar white walls and cries for his Master, but only the silence greets him. He wanders through the corridors, and gets hauled up to stand on his feet, rather than crawl like he is comfortable with. He is told to eat and wash and do everything _by himself_ but he's just not capable of that. 

He...he needs to get better, everyone keeps telling him that, they keep whispering _he'll get better, we just need to give him time._

But he _can't_. He can't get better by himself, he doesn't remember _how._

He was better, when he was with his Master.

The paladins are trying to treat him like he's a _person_ but he _isn't_ and it's _so hard,_ why won't they understand? He feels so _wrong,_ so uncomfortable in this place. 

He doesn't belong.

They encourage him to talk, to the point of not accepting his little nods or shakes of the head, forcing him to brokenly whisper his responses. He gains a little confidence, and tries to articulate that he wants to go back, but to that, they won't listen, telling him he's been manipulated and he's deluded but _it's okay, we'll fix you._

He knows they can't. 

He doesn't belong. 

They tell him he did, in the past, but that is another life, one he can't remember, try as he might. The memories are simply gone.

He doesn't belong. 

There is only one person who he belongs with, belongs _to,_ but he doesn't know how to get back. Doesn't know if he can. Doesn't know if there's somewhere to go back to.

* * *

It's been twenty five weeks, and Keith is utterly miserable. He hates his new captivity, hates the people here, hates that they're trying to force him to be something he's not. 

But there's still hope; as he's staring at the food goo at breakfast one morning, wishing it was instead little fruits fed to him piece by piece, he hears his Master's name for the first time since they brought him here. They've sighted a ship. They're planning a mission.

Keith _needs_ to be there. 

He knows they won't let him go - he's still _fragile,_ he needs time to _recover_ \- but he listens carefully, before leaving his food untouched and going to the room they've given him.

It was apparently his, once, but not now. Never now. 

He doesn't have anything of value here, because it's all back with his Master. But he does take his jewelled collar, from where he hid it under the mattress. It's damaged and chipped from where they hacked into the code and forced it off him, calling it a mark of slavery and imprisonment, but he sees it as a mark of belonging.

He fits it around his neck, as best as he can, then slips through the cold corridors and into the room of the mechanical yellow Beast. She stands there, warm and firm, but she has a soft heart, and she opens to his cries, guiding him to where he can stay hidden for the journey. He curls up in the small space, staying quiet as the others board and the Beast takes flight.

They took him from his Master; it is fitting, he thinks, that they are returning him in a similar manner.

Eventually the Beast sets down, and the paladins leave. Keith waits for a few minutes before creeping out of his hiding-place, and edging towards the open mouth of the Beast.

He can see the paladins, talking with someone, and as he crawls closer, he can finally see their identity. 

_Master!_

He whines, loud and clear, and his Master looks up, their eyes locking. All stealth forgotten, he bounds down the ramp, on two legs for speed until he is past the paladins, after which he then drops to his usual crawl, not stopping until he is at his Master's feet. Then he collapses fully, his head bowed so it touches the floor, a quivering keen asking for forgiveness but willing to accept punishment.

"How did he...?" 

"Keith, no! What are you doing?"

"Come back here, Keith! Please!"

His Master chuckles softly. "It appears he has chosen sides again, paladins."

"You - you monster! You're still controlling him!" 

"Am I? Tell me, paladins, how could I be drugging this little one when he was in your clutches?" his Master retorts, "He has come to me of his own free will. Just as he did, before you _stole_ him from me."

"We didn't steal him!" 

"He's not in his right mind. You broke him!" 

A hand runs through Keith's hair, and he leans into the touch, a soft, grateful whimper escaping him.

"Oh, no. I _fixed_ him. He's perfect now, isn't he?" his Master croons, gentle fingers lifting his chin up and caressing his cheeks. 

Keith can see the paladins standing not too far away, horror written on all their faces. 

"Keith, come back. Please. We can help you."

He shakes his head. "No," he whispers brokenly, "I don' wanna." Then he tenses, remembering how much his Master _despises_ him speaking, but his Master is being very merciful today.

"They tried to get you to be a person, didn't they?" he asks gently.

Keith nods.

"And you don't want to be a person, do you?" 

Keith shakes his head again.

"No! Don't say that!" The paladin's cries are anguished, but Keith only has eyes for his Master. 

"Who do you want to be with?" his Master asks, loud and clear now. 

He dares to speak his answer. "Y-you."

His Master's eyes glisten with victory, but Keith hangs his head again, resting his brow against his Master's shoe. He ignores the cries of horror, the pleas and begging, the desperate calling of his name. He ignores his Master's jeering retorts, ignores the harsh words, ignores the firm commands. 

He doesn't move until his Master seizes him by the collar, and pulls him up, forcing him into a sitting position. 

The paladins are gone, now, he realises.

His Master smiles, caressing his cheeks, his hair, and Keith sighs, content for the first time in weeks. 

"I missed you, little one," his Master whispers, a hunger in his eyes.

Keith sits up a little straighter, and tilts his head, waiting. His Master closes the gap between them, kissing with bruising force, but Keith relishes in the small spikes of pain. The clothes he was forced into are torn off him by his Master's claws, until he is lying at the foot of the throne, naked and exposed, new bruises littering his body.

He...he's _happy,_ though. 

He is _home._

"I am so glad you came back to me, little one," his Master smiles, staring down at him, "It seems you may have forgotten a few things, though."

Keith trembles. "N-no," he murmurs, "Was jus'...pretendin'."

His Master crouches down, fingers pinching his lips shut, the claws digging in slightly. "Hush, now. You're not allowed to talk. And even if you were _pretending..._ You still need a little reminder."

Keith looks away as soon as his Master releases his grip, knowing exactly what will follow. Yet he rolls onto all fours and follows at his Master's heels, crawling, and stops when his Master does. He sits perfectly still as his Master removes the broken collar and replaces it with a new one, thicker and heavier. He opens his mouth willingly to accept the spiked bar fixed to the muzzle, which is tightened around his head, locking his jaw closed. He does not flinch as his Master covers his nakedness with a simple loincloth. 

"Well done, little one," his Master croons, "If you are good like this, I won't have to punish you for long." His hands dance over the muzzle, firmly secured, because Keith forgot his place and allowed the paladins to manipulate him into speech. He's almost happy for its presence, preventing him from slipping up and talking, the pulsing pain reminding him of his place.

He is chained to the throne at night, not allowed back in his Master's bedroom, but it's okay. He messed up. He let himself be taken, let the paladins have _some_ influence over him. 

He _deserves_ these punishments, these physical discomforts. 

He has to endure them, to be worthy of staying at his Master's side once more.

* * *

It's been thirty weeks, and Keith kneels at his Master's feet, his head resting on his lap, hands running soothingly through his hair as his Master tells his generals of his plan of revenge against the paladins.

They manage to fall back into their old routine; a few days after Keith's return, he is allowed in his Master's bedroom again. The muzzle remains for a further two weeks, only being removed when his Master wanted to feed him or kiss him. His Master pushes a few boundaries, too, like taking away his loincloth for a couple of days, and his touches become rougher sometimes.

But Keith lets it all happen, not wanting to resist, not seeing the _point._ It is too hard for him to be a person, to be in control of himself. 

He... is _meant_ to be completely submissive, to have someone else dictating what he does.

(The more he thinks about it, the more he comes to the conclusion that he is an animal, a _pet._ Not a person turned into a slave. He was never a person.)

Now, though, he's without the muzzle, and the temptation to talk is long gone. He's wearing the loincloth and his new, heavier, more _beautiful_ collar, and his hair falls almost to his waist. He kneels beside his Master, the perfect pet he was always meant to be, and he is beyond satisfied. Every little touch from his Master is nothing less than pure bliss.

When the meeting finishes, his Master takes him into the lounge and pins him down on the couch, practically straddling him before the kissing starts. 

"You're perfect," he whispers, lips brushing over Keith's neck, "So, so perfect. I will forever be your Master, little one. You will always return to me."

Keith hears, and he takes great comfort in knowing it to be true. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Edit: This is now a series so look out for more!


End file.
